


Fine

by sightandsound3733



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:28:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sightandsound3733/pseuds/sightandsound3733
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wyoming is so not buying Florida's shit anymore. An ax to the shoulder does not equate to being "fine".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Churbooseanon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/gifts).



Butch loved to pretend that everything was fine.

Whether it was due to a failed mission objective, or a particularly successful one (there was a reason Agent Florida so often worked alone. His work was wet work and no one needed to see that up close and personal), or even just his batch of cookies going overdone because of the antics of their teammates, Butch Flowers would still hold his smile and smooth things over.

More often than not, people bought it without a single doubt. Butch was very charismatic, very charming. And while the team did seem to know that something was off, that there was something about the man that set their instincts on edge, they never tried to question him.

But not Wyoming.

No, Wyoming knew the man well enough to know when he was being fed bullshit through a warm smile. He knew when that smile didn’t reach those eyes, when those shoulders were just the barest hint too tense, when something was just plain not right.   
  
But that never stopped Butch from trying to insist that things were fine.

Take now for example, back on the MOI from the disaster of a retrieval mission concerning Connecticut.   
  
The Director was spitting mad, annoyed that they’d lost a full suit of armor and that he was starting to catch heat from upper levels of UNSC board members. Wyoming wasn’t really paying attention, and he knew no one really was.   
  
Carolina was fuming at herself (self destructive, that one), York and Wash were speaking in low tones together (naive little rookie and their sorry excuse of a locksmith), the Twins were bickering (God when were they not?) and Maine… well Maine was Maine. You didn’t mess with Maine (You just didn’t).  
  
Wyoming couldn’t have cared less. His attention kept drifting towards Florida at his side.   
  
The man stood calmly in a steady parade rest, listening to their debriefing, and to their reprimand, without a single twitch or movement. His helmet was on, as were all of theirs, but Wyoming knew that underneath it he would be wearing a small, serene smile. A closer look at his person though and one can see that a dark stain has spread in the undersuit of his armor (only one on the team without power armor, christ), can see the slight tear in the fabric between the meager coverage the plating allowed him, and Wyoming knew what it was.  
  
Blood. He was hurt.  
  
He isn’t able to say anything until they are dismissed and even then he can only barely manage to catch Florida’s hand outside the door, once the others are all gone.   
  
“You’re bleeding. Your shoulder…” Wyoming says softly, frowning from behind the mask of his helmet.

“I know,” Florida says warmly, giving a shrug. “Bit embarrassed I managed to take a hit like that. Such a shame. But it’s as right as rain now, I fixed the mess we were in.”  
  
“You were hit with a tomahawk and knocked down off the rafters,” Wyoming reminds him bluntly. “You need to go to medical.”  
  
“Reggie, don’t be ridiculous,” Florida laughs, the sound as warm and sweet as butterscotch. “I’m fine!”  
  
Fine. _**Fine**_.  
  
That damned fucking word.  
  
“No you’re not,” Wyoming insists lowly, his stomach twisting with worry. He hated that he got like this for the man most likely to get in all of the worst situations. Granted he always came out of them with a smile, but still. It just had to be Butch Flowers. “Florida… Butch, please. Don’t do this.”  
  
His name stills him, as it always did. It’s not his birth name, Wyoming knows that. He also knows that Butch Flowers is about as close to a real name as he’ll ever get for the man who so often shared his bed.   
  
“Reggie,” he says softly, facing him square on now. His voice has taken on an edge now, just the barest inflection change. “I’m fine. I’m not going to medical. They will only waste my time.”  
  
He wishes he could see his face, but Florida won’t take his helmet off out here. He hates it.. but he has to concede. The medics were idiots. Wyoming sighs, dropping his head.   
  
“You’re not fine,” he insists again. “But… okay. I won’t push.” He knows that Florida is watching him carefully. There is a few beats of silence between them. Wyoming has to wonder how they must look to passerby, just standing there, linked only by the hand he has curled around Florida’s wrist.  
  
“Alrighty then.” The chipperness is back and Florida’s helmet cocks to the side. Bastard is smiling at him, he knows it.. “Come along now.”  
  
“What?” Wyoming looks up, frowning at him.   
  
He should have known better than to think he was going to get an answer. Florida just chuckles, soft and almost fond as he pulls Wyoming along by the hand he was allowing to stay curled around his wrist.

They don’t speak again the entire time they’re walking. Florida leading them up a hall and then down a different one until they end up outside of Wyoming’s room. He dips his head, clearly inviting Wyoming to open the door to his own quarters.   
  
Wyoming keys in the code, wondering why Florida didn’t just do it himself. He knows that number as well as he does his own. He’s ushered inside his own bedroom and it’s only when the door hisses shot and the lock clicks into place that some tension seeps up into Florida’s frame.   
  
He pulls his wrist from Wyoming’s grasp now, easily breaking the hold, and then reaches up to ease his helmet off.   
  
The long, dark braid of his hair falls out from under the helmet, cascading down his back like a rope. Wyoming follows his lead, silently taking his own helmet off. “Butch, what-?”  
  
“I said medical would waste my time,” Butch muses, setting the helmet down on Wyoming’s dresser. “Not that you would Reggie.”  
  
Reggie blinks and then has to chuckle. “But of course,” he says quietly, stepping closer. He should have known better. They always seemed to end up in situations like this, and it surprised him every single time.  
  
Silently Reggie starts to help Butch unhook the locks to the plating, getting him down to just the, now probably ruined, undersuit. Butch is quietly humming to himself as he neatly piles the bits of armor at the foot of the standard issue dresser. The more they take off, the more apparent it is how large the bloodstain actually is.  
  
Reggie bites down on the inside of his cheek as he lightly touches a hand to Butch’s chest and it comes away wet with blood. “Butch,” he says softly, looking up at the man. All he gets is a small smile and a gentle hand cupping his cheek, playful fingers tweaking his moustache.   
  
“I’m fine,” he says again, voice gentle and warm. His hands were always surprisingly so. “Reggie, would I lie to you?”  
  
Yes. 100% completely and totally. He would lie about tactics, about strategy, about where he was on his mission, about his name, his past, about the scars that criss cross his body. Butch Flowers was a man wrapped in lies, beautiful and careful in their craft, not a single tear in the cloak of them that he wore.  
  
Reggie pointedly doesn’t answer as he shifts around to unzip the undersuit, peeling it away from Butch’s skin carefully. He’s greeted the with the sight of familiar scars marking beautifully smooth skin. There’s the slightest of gasps from Butch, just a bare hitch of his breath, as Reggie trails his still gloved hand over a few of his favorites. The textured grip on the gloves was enough to have a shiver rolling down the assassin’s back.   
  
He chuckles softly even in the heavy atmosphere that’s built itself around him. “Easy, love,” he murmurs as he draws the undersuit down. Butch looks to him with warm eyes and a quirk to his lips that’s not quite a smile. Not yet.

Once the undersuit is on the floor, Reggie goes to inspect the damage left behind. The undersuit had done it’s job, drawing blood away from the injury, leaving only the gash of red from the open wound. It trailed from the meat of his shoulder down into the top of his chest. It wasn’t as bad as Reggie had thought, but still. There had been a goddamned ax embedded in him.   
  
“Let’s get you patched.” He goes to his dresser as Butch instead goes to sit down, drawing his braid over his uninjured shoulder. From the dresser he grabs an aid kit, selecting a small can of bio-foam and an acrylic wrap that would hold it all together.  
  
“You’re being awfully sweet on me tonight,” Butch notes, clearly fond and amused.  
  
“Always,” Reggie chuckles, sitting beside him on the bed and uncapping the injector. There’s a soft hiss as he applies the foam before unrolling the wrap to securely patch up the wound, hoping that was all they would need. He knows Butch wouldn’t do more so this would have to hold for him to heal. “Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t need pain meds?”  
  
“Of course not,” Butch laughs, low and warm. “A little pain never hurt anybody.”  
  
“The whole point of pain is that it hurts,” Reggie notes dryly as he sets the bits of the it aside. Butch rolls out his shoulder with a small smile. “I worry about you and how you perceive things like this.”  
  
“You shouldn’t worry about little old me. I’m just fine, Reggie,” Butch smiles at him, genuine now. He leans in to kiss Wyoming’s cheek, light and fleeting. “Now, are you going to stay wrapped up in all that armor? Or are you going to power down and finish with the R&R?”  
  
“I thought you said you were just fine,” Reggie chuckles, smiling at him, angling his body more toward him. “Why would you need some R&R if you were just ‘fine’ ?”  
  
“Reggie,” Butch pouts at him. “Don’t be such a fuddy duddy. Just kiss me.” God it shouldn’t be this easy for him to make him cave, he was a grown man after all. But here he was, melting like marzipan in the hot sun for Butch Flowers. Reggie puts on a heavy sigh, but he’s smiling.   
  
“Oh the things I do for you, Flowers.” It’s his turn to be soft and find, one hand coming up to cup Butch’s chin. His thumb swipes almost playfully just under the pout of his lower lip.   
  
“The things you do for me,” Butch agrees with a chuckle. His pout shifts to a smile as he tweaks at his mustache again before leaning in to steal the kiss he wanted. Reggie smiles into it, keeping him close while he could for the moment.  
  
Okay. So maybe fine was actually going to be just fine after all

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr!
> 
> sights-sound-and-rain.tumblr.com


End file.
